Kneading You

Riley smoothed the skirt of the short blue polka-dotted dress over his hips, feeling the light fabric brush the tops of his thighs. The bodice was snug, the sweetheart neckline scooping low to frame his chest and push his cleavage high. Isabelle had been right—the matching frilled apron tied at his waist didn't hide anything; it only drew the eye, the crisp white ruffle bouncing slightly when he moved.

When he'd told her about his idea for the next stream, she'd smirked and called him Riley Homemaker. Then she'd sent him the link to the dress. Riley hadn't argued—he knew the second he saw it that it was perfect. "Homemaker" might not be the exact word he would've picked, but it had a nice ring to it.

He turned in front of the mirror, adjusting the skirt so it flared just enough. The dress clung tightly around his waist, lifting his breasts in a way his viewers would appreciate, all while giving a deep show of his cleavage. The polka dots were playful, almost wholesome, but the fit was almost indecent. He pulled the elastic band from his wrist and swept his hair into a loose, high tie, letting a few artfully escaped strands frame his face. He caught his own reflection and smirked—he knew exactly how the camera would eat this up.

In the kitchen, he set up the tripod, tilting the camera until the counter—and more importantly, his upper body—were perfectly in frame. He gave a quick test smile at the lens, then tugged the bag of flour closer. Dipping his fingers inside, he lifted a pinch and dusted it over the swell of his cleavage. Against his skin, the fine powder made a pale, teasing contrast, the sort of thing his loyal viewers would notice instantly.

When he went live, the chat exploded in greetings, hearts, and far too many food emojis. Riley's smile deepened, warm and welcoming, as though he'd just opened the door to let them inside. Without breaking eye contact with the lens, he began kneading the lump of dough in front of him. His fingers pressed and folded, palms pushing forward in a steady rhythm. Each lean toward the counter made the neckline strain a little more, the apron's bow swaying lazily behind him.

He knew exactly what they wanted. He shifted his stance so the camera had a clean angle, rolling his shoulders just enough to make his cleavage dip toward the counter. When he shoved down on the dough, he let a quiet, breathy sound escape—half sigh, half murmur—moving with his whole body in a way that was far more indulgent than necessary.

"Alright, sweet things," he purred, voice dripping with fake innocence, "today I'm going to take care of you. You've been working so hard… haven’t you? So tired… so lonely. I know you need someone to make you feel looked after. Someone to make you something warm and soft… something you can put in your mouth." He let out a moan as he pushed particularly hard on the mound of dough in front of him.

The chat went insane. Little hearts. Eggplants. And one word over and over again—HOUSEWIFE.

Riley frowned in mock confusion, leaning toward the monitor so close his breath fogged the lens for a second. "Housewife? Huh… I'm… not a wife. I'm just a homemaker, sweeties. Big difference." He tilted his head, a stray curl brushing one cheek, and the movement made his pillowy lips catch the light in a way that seemed almost… edible. "But… I mean… if you want a housewife…" He gave a helpless little shrug, lashes lowering. "Well. I guess I could be yours for today."

He continued kneading the dough, slow and deliberate, every push and pull an unspoken invitation, his whole body rolling with the motion. His eyes flicked up to the chat again, and he smiled like he'd just overheard a very dirty secret. "You like watching my hands, don't you? Wondering what else they could… work on for you?"

The dough was just a prop—Riley's idea for a cutesy domestic stream—but now his mind had slipped to something more real. He began to think about Chase. The way Riley's boyfriend looked at him so possessively. The way he had begun to hold Riley when he was in need of some meditative attention. The way he filled out those shorts.

Maybe the dough could be more than a set piece. Maybe Riley would actually finish this loaf. Bring it over, use it as an excuse to see his boyfriend. Maybe Chase would let him stay the night again. And maybe Riley could wake him up before sunrise with something better than breakfast.

He peeked at his reflection in the monitor—flushed cheeks, lips parted, that tiny smear of flour on his collarbone that looked just a little too much like a fingerprint.

"Careful," he murmured to the camera, pressing the dough into shape with languid little circles, "you keep watching me like that… and I'm gonna start thinking you want more than bread."

The comments rolled in, filthy, eager. He let his fingertips linger on the dough, then dragged them lightly over his apron, down his hips. His voice softened, almost shy, like he was about to confess something dangerous.

"Maybe I do want to be your little housewife," he said, cheeks heating just enough to make it look real. "I could make you lunch every day. Pack it up so when you take your break, you'd think of me. Open your bag, and the smell would hit you, and you'd remember exactly what I was wearing when I made it…" He smoothed the skirt over his thighs slowly. "And maybe you'd wonder if I was still wearing it when you came home."

Riley didn't rush. The dough was warm now, pliant under his palms, and every time he leaned forward to press into it, his body rolled in a slow, steady rhythm. The skirt of the dress swayed with each movement, the neckline tugging lower when he put his weight into the push. The camera caught everything—his hips, his chest, the subtle arch in his back.

"Mmm… you see that?" he breathed, tilting his head so a loose strand of hair slipped across his cheek. "A girl like me… I know my way around a kitchen." His lips curled into a knowing smile as he gave the dough one last deep press, shoulders rolling forward in a motion that was anything but innocent.

The chat went feral—hearts, fire emojis, "marry me," "don’t stop," "wife material." The tip counter jumped, little digital chimes ringing out over the soft sound of his hands working the dough.

Riley's gaze flicked to the lens, eyes heavy-lidded. "But, baby…" he let the word stretch, his voice dipping low, "the kitchen's not the only room I'm an expert in." His fingers sank into the dough again, slowly, deliberately, his whole body moving with it. "You could put me anywhere in your house, and I'd find a way to… take care of you."

Another surge of tips. The chime turned into a steady cascade, and Riley's smile widened. He licked a bit of flour from his thumb without breaking eye contact, knowing exactly what he was doing.

"Good girls know how to keep their man happy," he continued, pressing harder now, each thrust into the dough carrying the suggestion of something far less wholesome. "And I'm such a good girl."

The comments blurred together in a wall of praise and demands. He let his breathing grow a little heavier, leaning into the rhythm until it felt like the whole kitchen was swaying with him.

Finally, he slowed, resting both palms on the mound of dough like he was staking a claim. His voice softened, dropping into something private, something that cut through the noise of the chat.

"And to you, my special man…" His smile was small now, secretive, Chase's face vivid in his mind's eye. "I'll be over later… to show you what a good girl I've been."

And then, without waiting for the chat to catch its breath, he reached forward and ended the stream.